


Out of action and speechless

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 00:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya can't respondLJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: block, crimson





	Out of action and speechless

The young man’s eyes were closed, his face was badly scraped on one side and the scarlet thread trickling from his mouth down his neck into the collar of his blue polo shirt was quickly turning it crimson. People walked past quickly as he sat limply on the park seat, not involved and not wanting to be. He was muttering, too, which is always off-putting even to would-be Samaritans.

A youngish woman from out of town, not used to this kind of indifference among her fellow Americans, was shocked. She sat down beside him and touched his arm which triggered a sharp reaction. He hit out and knocked her hand away and then opened vivid blue eyes which widened on seeing her frightened face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Can I help you?”

He looked at her blankly and frowned.

“Can you tell me your name? Can I call someone for you?” which produced an anguished look. She pointed to his jacket and mimed opening it. “Can I see your pocket book or something? … To find your name.” No response. Was he deaf or just foreign?

She mimed for him to get his wallet out. He turned away as he opened his jacket. Reluctant to provoke another violent reaction, she didn’t take the wallet from him but again mimed opening it. He seemed to be getting the idea now and this time not only opened it but withdrew a gold card from it and handed it to her.

“U.N.C.L.E.”, she read, and turned it over to find a foreign-looking name. There was also a telephone number. She smiled at him and, pointing at the telephone, said, “I’m going to phone this number, is that OK, Mr Kur… Mr Kuryakin?”

He shook his head and then clutched his face. “Oh, does it hurt bad?” she said sympathetically but received no response. Then he raised his head and reached once more into his inner pocket and withdrew a silver pen-like object. He struggled a little with the top but at last fitted it upside down into the pen and twisted it. It was a microphone-receiver. He held it out to her as someone’s voice came from it. “Illya? Is that you?” He gestured to her to speak into it.

“Hello?” she said.

A rather confusing conversation ensued but the woman on the other end said she would send someone.

oo000oo

Napoleon, not having heard from Illya since the previous evening, was concerned about him and had gone to see Mr Waverly.

“There has been no word from him on any frequency,” said Waverly. “But he usually gets himself out of any pickle.”

“He often needs assistance, in my experience,” said Napoleon.

“Nonsense,” said Waverly and was about to make some pointed remark about agents who mollycoddled each other, when a call came through from the switchboard.

Napoleon listened to Waverly’s replies. “I see,” he was saying. “Can’t speak…Seems unable to understand… Hmm. Very well.” He looked at Napoleon, “Some young woman is attending to him in Central Park. Better go and find him, Mr Solo. He doesn’t seem able to get himself out of this one.”

oo000oo

Illya had been tidied up a little; his eyes were closed and his head was resting on his rescuer’s shoulder when Napoleon arrived. He smiled down at her, introduced himself and learned her name was Maxine. He saw blood still trickling from the side of Illya’s mouth. “Ah,” he said. “Looks like a broken jaw – or maybe just teeth… Hey, partner, wakey wakey. Time to go home and get you wired up.”

The blue eyes opened and glared at him. “That’s a good sign,” said Napoleon. “Seems to know who I am.”

“He doesn’t want to speak,” said Maxine.

“Well, he doesn’t say much when he’s hurt.”

She looked surprised. “You mean this has happened before?”

“Yes, it’s kind of a trying profession in that way. Now, I could use some help getting him to the car – and then, can I give you a lift home?”

“Oh, it’s a hotel – but it’s only a block – I can walk.”

He was insistent, however, and with his friend between them, his arms round their necks, they took him to the car and sat him in it. Maxine was then delivered back to her hotel in style. Napoleon escorted her to the door and, demonstrating both gratitude and his usual charm, asked – seeing as she was new to the city, would she like to be taken out to a restaurant this evening, and maybe a show?

oo000oo

Still speechless and now with his broken jaw wired up, Illya stretched out in the infirmary’s regulation blue pyjamas, a typewriter on his knee, writing up his report.

Napoleon entered dressed for an evening out. He picked up and read the first sheets of the report and looked down at Illya. “You put a whole Thrush laboratory out of action – by accident?”

“Illya nodded.

“Can’t leave you alone for a minute.” He read further. “Thrown from a car? How many lives do you have left?”

Illya shrugged.

“Well, anyway – no wonder they threw you out.” He smiled kindly at Illya’s not-quite expressionless look. “Hey, here comes your dinner. Looks _very_ enticing, I must say.” It was unkind, and indeed unwise, to tease him but Napoleon was safely near the door. “Maybe not quite as good as where I’m taking Maxine – but you’re not faddy about food are you?” He smiled again and made a quick exit.

Illya looked at the tray he had been brought, the liquid sludge, the straw that accompanied it, the tiny child’s spoon for the plate of green jello and growled.

Retribution might be sweet, he promised himself.

**ooo0000ooo**


End file.
